


A Small Kindness

by FromAnonymousToZ



Series: Lanternuary 2021 [5]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: A very literal take to today's prompt, Kind touch, Lanternuary, Lanternuary 2021, M/M, The Beast isnt used to being touched, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28611222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: The Beast is unused to being touched by someone who doesn't intend to harm him.For the Lanternuary 2021 prompt: carpe noctum: "seize the night"
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Series: Lanternuary 2021 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087931
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	A Small Kindness

The Beast’s furs are thick. 

And his bark is hard to pierce. 

But he is not indestructible.

He’s been broken, snapped, trampled, dropped, and burned, and it hurts, certainly. Not in the way of flesh and bone but in the way of severed souls and weeping sap. And he was so rarely touched at all, and there was no kindness in the fingers that touched his bark. 

He was not a creature mortals wanted to get close to, and those who did, did so only with the intention to wound. They were not often successful, but he had spent too many an evening clutching his face as his eyes dripped pearly fluid as he tries to see through the wound. There were too many nights spent trying to find his severed limbs in the snow or drag himself, limping, to a tree or shelter as he left a trail of edeloil in his wake.

He was wary and light on his feet. 

He shied away from touch and bristled and snapped. 

He made himself as unapproachable as possible, flickering and shrinking away with shadows when faced by the silver of an axe. He moved fluidly, dancing out of the way of their blades and trying to take what blows he could not dodge in the parts of him that were numb. 

He didn’t allow mortals or spirits alike to touch him. 

He growled and snarled, ducked and weaved, stepped out of their reach, or simply used his shadows to give them a turnaround. 

There were, of course, exceptions, but they were few and far between. 

Those who dared to bury a blade in him or touch him with the intent to harm often didn't live long enough to do so again, and if they did, they found themselves with several fingers less than they began with. 

Enoch was a special case. 

The Harvest Lord’s touch was always gentle, ushered by cornsilk and cobwebs, carding along his bark, twisting beneath his furs and tangling in his antlers. It never sought to harm, only to trace incomprehensible patterns, to hold. 

Threats did not work on the Harvest Lord, nor did bristling silence, and there was no way to gracefully evade such numerous limbs. The Harvest King could not be deterred. No barbed words or rough claws turn him from his task of wrapping himself about the Beast like thread around a spool.

The only time the Autumn Lord restrained himself was when the small barrier of the fence running between their worlds is between them. Enoch respects his borders and doesn't cross them. 

Or rather, didn’t. 

As years had weathered on, Enoch had grown bolder, sending a flick of streamers across the fence to cup the Beast’s face or thread between his claws. 

Their borders had blurred, and the side on which autumn belonged became fuzzier with each passing day.

And the Beast had found he did not mind so much when Enoch dared to wrap a ribbon around his chest. 

In the past, the action would make him freeze, standing perfectly still, excruciatingly aware of how easy it would be for the Autumn Lord to squeeze and send him splintering into pieces. He would have bristled as he waits, utterly at the mercy of Enoch’s whims, as the Harvest Lord prattled on, unaware of his silent suffering. 

Now, he hardly spared a thought to the ribbons lacing themselves into bows around his chest. He still paused tensely when ribbons threaded through his antlers but could soon be coaxed to relax by the fondling of his antlers. 

The Beast does not shrink away from Enoch’s touch or bristle and growl when ribbons get too close to him. 

But he is still liable to be taken by surprise.

The night is young, the traces of sunset still slinking below the horizon as a deep, vast black spreads overhead, like ink spilled. 

Enoch’s laughter is intoxicating, spilling across the border and wrapping itself around the Beast. It burns warm and sweet on the Beast’s palate and his own hissing laughter, cold as ice and as deep as thunder swirls up to join it. 

They walk, side by side, separated by the wooden fence, Enoch gliding over the ground, the rasp of fabric seeping into the edges of the Beast’s consciousness. 

The first ribbon goes unheeded. The Beast hardly notices as it ties itself into a droopy bow. The second braids through his antlers, and the third streamer wrap steadfastly around his chest. 

And then, abruptly, the ground falls away from under his feet as he is hoisted easily in the air. 

His claws scrabble at nothing, catching in green fabric. 

For a moment, fear blazes sickening yellow and purple through his eyes as he struggles blindly. He is not often reminded of the Harvest Lord’s immeasurable strength, but he finds himself lifted from the ground as easily as a leaf lifted by the wind. 

He’s pulled over the border, tucked against flickering whirling streamers, fabric rising up to caress about his arms and legs, stilling his claws and struggle.

A strained sound spills out of his mouth as he goes as taut as a bowstring, waiting. 

His eyes blaze in furious rings devoid of blue as his ears strain against the sound of fabric rustling and the Harvest Lord’s cooing, listening for the sound of wood splintering. He waits, with bated breath, breathing shallowly, the concern from the Harvest Lord coats his throat. He waits for the moment when wood is put to pressure when it creaks and groans and cracks, and he is left fractured and defenseless at the border of Autumn. 

Instead, only Enoch’s hesitant voice reaches him. 

“Neighbor, are you quite alright?” Concern radiates warm and gentle from the maypole, as ribbons stroke up along the Beast’s flanks, tracing soothing circles. 

The Beast lets out a breath, and slowly, the colors staining his eyes seeps away, replaced by flat white. Tension dissipates from his body, and he relaxes as Enoch fusses over him. 

“Yes.” He says at last. “You took me by surprise, Harvest Lord, that is all.”

Enoch hums, and the sound vibrates through his ribbons and reverberates through the Beast. 

“That was not my intention, Hope Eater.” Enoch purrs, soothing over the Beast’s furs fondly, tucking ribbons under the Beast’s furs. Enoch cradles the Beast against his nests of ribbons. 

The Beast hums, blue painting the edges of his eyes. 

“Perhaps give me a touch of a warning next time,” One of Enoch’s ribbons curls around the Beast’s face, cupping the shape of his grin behind shadow.

“Of course, dear,” Enoch says and leans down, pressing a fabric kiss to the top of the Beast’s head, cradling the night in his ribbons.


End file.
